The Shelf is a Metaphorhttps://theshelfisametaphor.wordpress.com
This shelf holds books, banter, baking, crafting, fitness and creativity.Tue, 26 Sep 2017 19:57:57 +0000enhourly1http://wordpress.com/https://s2.wp.com/i/buttonw-com.pngThe Shelf is a Metaphorhttps://theshelfisametaphor.wordpress.com
New Song Neededhttps://theshelfisametaphor.wordpress.com/2017/09/13/new-song-needed/
https://theshelfisametaphor.wordpress.com/2017/09/13/new-song-needed/#respondThu, 14 Sep 2017 01:07:47 +0000http://theshelfisametaphor.wordpress.com/?p=1158Continue reading →]]>Do you have a song that comes into your head uninvited? It’s your life soundtrack, or maybe it was playing at one of your formative moments? Maybe you scream sang it when you were seventeen and broken hearted? Or you listened to it on a tape player on repeat while pacing the halls of your college law library?

For many years, my “song” was the deeply uncool Cher song, “If I Could Turn Back Time.”

But, for the life of me, I didn’t know why. No deeply felt romantic regrets, well, none on my end anyway. I admire Cher, but Yolanda was the superfan, not me. I acknowledge the video’s cheesy charm. I mean, she sits on a cannon. There is no subtext! (And also no context. The video has next to nothing to do with the song.) Her outfit is iconic. She is waxed beyond reproach. Her wig is perfectly curly.

I was getting ready to graduate from college. I was listening to Elvis Costello and Echo and the Bunnymen. I was a pretentious twit who quoted Ulysses and was pretending to be competent. Not my song.

So why this? Why is this Diane Warren anthem the one that plays in my head when my head is at rest? And what can I do to make it stop?

]]>https://theshelfisametaphor.wordpress.com/2017/09/13/new-song-needed/feed/0mtromanoI took my love, I took it downhttps://theshelfisametaphor.wordpress.com/2017/08/02/i-took-my-love-i-took-it-down/
https://theshelfisametaphor.wordpress.com/2017/08/02/i-took-my-love-i-took-it-down/#respondWed, 02 Aug 2017 20:24:58 +0000http://theshelfisametaphor.wordpress.com/?p=1117Continue reading →]]>Something happened to me a few months ago. Well, it actually happened a few years ago, but I didn’t know until Memorial Day weekend.

Dudes (and ladies) cheat and lie all the time. But this was a spectacular series of lies, a con, a gaslighting, that ended in complete silence. On Saturday morning, I was loved by and in love with a good man. By Saturday night, I was hung up on by a cold-hearted coward and liar. I never heard from him again.

It’s not been easy. I’m strong and brave and I saved myself from an end game that remains a mystery. (What did he want? Did he hate me and all women? Was he just going to disappear anyway, as soon as I asked for too much? Why, why, why?)

In retrospect, there was so much wrong with us. I accepted less and less in return for a dozen “I love yous” a day. I’m not saying that meanly. I needed to be loved. The man I thought he was was just broken enough for me, and I was happy for a year or so. Yet when I wasn’t, I was afraid to tell him, myself, or anyone else. But I was finally ready to leave, which is why I googled to the evidence of his betrayal.

Mostly, though, I’m angry. Enraged that he just threw me away. Angry that he gets to live his perfect suburban life and erase me. Maybe he’s afraid, maybe there’s a twinge somewhere in his tiny black heart. Mostly, though, I think he’s proud that he left me with this black ball of tar. That it might change me and make me less trusting, more hateful, and incapable of love.

Well, fuck that. I’m both a better and worse person than he thinks I am. In a minute, everything I do will be better without him. In a minute, my life will be different and vibrant. In a minute, I’ll find love again.

He gets none of that. None of me. Even these words aren’t about him. They’re about ME.

(However, if you know a good hex, something gentle, maybe a rash that never goes away, hit me up.)

]]>https://theshelfisametaphor.wordpress.com/2017/02/28/the-good-bakes/feed/0mtromanoWaste Your Summer Praying in Vainhttps://theshelfisametaphor.wordpress.com/2017/01/24/waste-your-summer-praying-in-vain/
https://theshelfisametaphor.wordpress.com/2017/01/24/waste-your-summer-praying-in-vain/#commentsWed, 25 Jan 2017 01:20:48 +0000http://theshelfisametaphor.wordpress.com/?p=1090Continue reading →]]>It seemed right to leave the love letter as the final post on the blog. Go quietly into the night. But I’m back.

I had a surprise snow day (really, Ossining, we close schools with an inch of slush?) And I thought it was the day that I’d finally get through a long and lingering to do list. I’d read, exercise, figure things out.

I worked a little. Went through paperwork. Checked in on my parents. Googled “zoodles” because I’ve eaten pasta everyday for nine days and maybe, just maybe, I needed to stop.

And then I came here. Because I miss it. I’ve forgotten that I write. I’ve let the muscle atrophy and I’m not sure if I can fight the middle-aged spread.

Lots has been happening. And nothing. I’m in the corner again. Life is big and squishy and I’m tucked into the corner, holding on. That’s okay. It’s been a time.

But I’m back.

]]>https://theshelfisametaphor.wordpress.com/2017/01/24/waste-your-summer-praying-in-vain/feed/1mtromanoDearest Maria,https://theshelfisametaphor.wordpress.com/2016/07/06/dear-maria/
https://theshelfisametaphor.wordpress.com/2016/07/06/dear-maria/#respondThu, 07 Jul 2016 01:53:50 +0000http://theshelfisametaphor.wordpress.com/?p=1064Continue reading →]]>Going to start big, because I need you to believe this, to feel it through and through. You are the one I love and will love until my dying day. I love your skin, your knees, your heart, your mind, your needs, your navel. Because that love is so deep, so natural, I forget it sometimes. It’s the air I breath. And I’ll only share the air I breathe with you, my love.

I love that your hair is curly and frizzy and alive. I love your electric blue nails. And your chubby toes. I love the scar on your forearm that you got baking chocolate cake for your sister and your family in Florida. That was good cake. And the burn got you the attention you craved.

I love how you loved your sister. That is important and necessary for you to remember. Your love was generous, over the top, needy, yet you let her go. It is that love that keeps her here with you. Your sister, with the glorious wild curly hair. That is part of you too.

I love how you love your parents imperfectly. You get the most generous when you resent them the most. You are tender with them when you want to stab them for getting frail and sick. They gave you gnocchi, Ponza and this house, which keeps you safe and protected.

You flail around in your life. You’re restless and will work yourself up to great feats of bravery. You’ll drive to Michigan to meet a stranger, you’ll accept a job because it’s something you’ve never done. Your soul is an adventurer, even if your body has been in the Bronx a long time.

You’re funny, soulful and creative. You care about the girls you lead; you work hard to make them understand that they are seen. That they are perfect. You don’t always do that for yourself.

You wear lace and fancy underwear. I love the swish of your thighs and the curve of your waist. You enjoy a cocktail. And swimming. I love how excited you are about being in the water. Especially nightswimming.

You are imperfect and brave. You panic that you’re not enough and go for the big gesture. You’re needy and proud. But you are enough. You are great. You try to be good and kind. You are beautiful. And I’m glad you’re mine.

You know, that track that whisper talks all the ugliest parts of you. It’s been stuck, and it’s keeping me quiet.

I’ve tried talking to my friends. I can feel their loving concern, but it comes coated with judgement. “You should be doing better. Why are you stuck again?” (This is not true. Sorry friends. Even if were, though, the love is the important part of it.)

I’m terrified to lose the handful of things that feel good. I hate holidays and how I end up feeling isolated and weird. I’m angry and sad. But these feelings aren’t permanent. And I accept them too.

I started reading the Elena Ferrante book, My Brilliant Friend, and it’s stirring up feelings. Longing. Nostalgia for Italy. Parts of me that I let fall away.

It’s not been a great week, but I’m going to put it behind me. Take a shower and read more. And write a love letter to myself.

I used to love books and reading and writing, but I’m so distracted by the world around me (and on my phone) that I only finish a book under book club time pressure. I’m embarrassed and sad because reading was a core part of my identity.

I used the KonMari Method on my books last year and donated over 600 volumes to the library. I hope they didn’t end up in the landfill. I hope they won’t haunt me. But I needed to shed some weight.

I think I could live in a houseboat, but I’ve never been on one.

I learned to swim when my father threw me into the sea when I was three. He was determined that I’d learned to swim before we left Ponza, the Italian island where we’re from. I still remember the feeling of falling, of watching the sun disappear, and then, discovering an instinct to kick.

My father had a heart attack right before my sixteenth birthday. He was forty-eight and a heavy smoker. He’s still alive, but an invalid now. He never smoked again.

My mom survived early stage lung cancer. She never smoked herself.

My sister died of colon cancer when she was forty-seven years old. Five years ago this June. I sometimes think that if I survive the next few years, I might be immortal.

A few years ago, I weighed over 300 pounds. I lost quite seventy pounds and kept it off, but I’ve plateaued and it’s beginning to affect my sense of self.

Taking up space is something I think about alot. I’ll always be self-conscious and aware, in a way that smaller people probably aren’t.

My butt hates stools. So do I. Why choose a stool over a chair?

I am a terrific procrastinator. But when I finally make a decision, I make big changes and leaps with blinding speed.

I fell in love in 2015. He’s my opposite, all action, quick decisions, black and white, and I love being challenged by him. His support feels deeper to me because it’s rooted in trust that comes from curiosity and questioning. I love the way he thinks. He brings me peace.

I value kindness over almost anything else.

I started cooking on Sundays for the entire week of lunches. And it feels like self-love and nurturing. Riced cauliflower is my new love/obsession.

I shudder if I brush a shower curtain, in or out of the shower.

I remember the feel of my sister’s hand when she released her last breath, but other memories have already begun to fade. I miss her every day.

I live in the Bronx and I can’t deny that it feels like failure to live in the same place where I grew up. My fear is that I will die here.

I teach STEM to elementary and middle school girls. Since I was an English major and a writer, I’m surprised by how much I enjoy it and how good I am at it.

Because of my weight and self-consciousness, I didn’t go swimming for many years. Six years ago, I bought a skirted bathing suit and threw myself into waters off Cape Cod. Now I own five suits and go aqua cycling.

I’ve been thinking about getting a dog for at least five years.

]]>https://theshelfisametaphor.wordpress.com/2016/03/06/i-carry-this-with-me/feed/2mtromanoEvacuate the Dance Floorhttps://theshelfisametaphor.wordpress.com/2015/11/06/evacuate-the-dance-floor/
https://theshelfisametaphor.wordpress.com/2015/11/06/evacuate-the-dance-floor/#respondFri, 06 Nov 2015 23:29:13 +0000http://theshelfisametaphor.wordpress.com/?p=995Continue reading →]]>A complete list of things I ate today because I was excited/nervous and later, waiting for the man I love:

Asian chicken salad that was only Asian by dint of canned mandarin oranges and a metric ton of sesame oil. Chicken was shredded and sad.

2 glasses of prosecco

Bourbon manhattan, extra cherry, although the cherry is maraschino and therefore, inferior.

Cheesecake with raspberry sauce.

Now I’m listening to a loud Portuguese man making a loud phone call, and I’m debating whether I’ll admit that I stress ate all of that, and skip dinner. Or just eat again.

]]>https://theshelfisametaphor.wordpress.com/2015/11/06/evacuate-the-dance-floor/feed/0mtromanoIt Gets Late Early Around Herehttps://theshelfisametaphor.wordpress.com/2015/11/03/it-gets-late-early-around-here/
https://theshelfisametaphor.wordpress.com/2015/11/03/it-gets-late-early-around-here/#respondTue, 03 Nov 2015 21:53:48 +0000http://theshelfisametaphor.wordpress.com/?p=990Continue reading →]]>I’m sitting in a dark corner at a New Jersey Panera. Don’t ask me how I got here, but here I am.

I decided to do NaNoWriMo this year, but I’m doing it my way. I’m writing every day and keeping a word count, but I’m not barreling towards 50,000. I don’t even think I have 50k words IN me right now. I want to sit in the quiet. I want to be left alone. I feel flinchy and exposed, but also as if the world is coming through a layer of vaseline. Muted and distant.

The sky is beautiful today; the late afternoon light is fading. It’s warm and unseasonal. The leaves are way past their peak; they’re getting in their winter look. I yearn to stay focused. Get my job done and do it well. Eat healthily. See friends. DO things.

But,today, I’m just trying to write few words and to look up, really look up, and around. The details matter, I tell my students. So I look for them.

The girl in the plaid school uniform keeps sneaking looks at the menu. She wants food, but her friend is mid soccer-boy story. The middle-aged woman wiping tables chews gum, but her mouth is crooked, like she’s storing it in her cheek. People come in two by two.

I want to cry, but I can’t quite get there. I’m the same age she was when she died. I’m going to pass her, probably. Will she still be my older sister, when she’s always and forever 47?

I don’t want the holidays to be sad. I can’t bear to be the sad girl again. But I can’t hold the happiness. It overflows its tiny container, and I try to chase it, but I drop the rest.

]]>https://theshelfisametaphor.wordpress.com/2015/11/03/it-gets-late-early-around-here/feed/0mtromanoThe Things She Didn’t Cookhttps://theshelfisametaphor.wordpress.com/2015/11/01/the-things-she-didnt-cook/
https://theshelfisametaphor.wordpress.com/2015/11/01/the-things-she-didnt-cook/#respondSun, 01 Nov 2015 21:22:15 +0000http://theshelfisametaphor.wordpress.com/?p=988Continue reading →]]>I’ve been cleaning out my guest room/library. Donating about 500 books. Combining my cookbooks and my sister’s. Maybe one day I won’t know which was hers and which was mine.

I also found her collection of pages torn out of magazines and recipes that she printed out. Most from Food TV. The hope chest of serious home cooks. I looked through them yesterday, scanning for her handwriting. Wanting to find the things she made. She left a binder with her “real” recipes, which might or might not be real. She had a way of keeping secrets. Ingredients that she wouldn’t share because she wanted to be the best at making the recipe.

These were different. They never made it to her stable. They were the things that caught her eye. Things she wanted to make for her friends, for my parents, for me, for Michael. Some things stood out to me. Lemon. Blueberry. Zucchini. Gnocchi. (Come on, Sis, you don’t need a recipe for GNOCCHI. We have it in our muscle memory.)

I have one of these too. Although it gets smaller each year, rather than larger, because now I have bookmarks. I’m cooking more, but I print only when it’s a keeper, usually with handwritten notes.

I should make one of her recipes. The volcano cakes from Cook’s Illustrated that she actually asked me to make for her. I remember the recipe. It’s in my collection of strays. I didn’t get to make it for her, and for that, I’m relieved, because it’s fiddley in the way that I hate.

I should make one of these recipes, I think. Maybe a few. Not the conch fritters. Those were her special loves. Maybe the lemon blueberry muffins, except I have frozen blackberries that I’m anxious to use. Is it all right to change? Is it all right to move on?